


The Torah and Tarot Cards

by IrelandForever



Category: Peaky Blinders (TV), Peaky Blinders RPF
Genre: F/M, True Lineage Revealed
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-01-15
Updated: 2020-07-19
Packaged: 2021-02-27 03:18:55
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 12,808
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22260157
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/IrelandForever/pseuds/IrelandForever
Summary: A prompt by 2lazy2signIn when the commented on Higgles123’s “Barefoot In The Sand”“Polly's daughter, Anna was adopted by a Jewish family and raised lovingly in Camden with a different name (Rachel). She pursued Alfie despite the age gap and his thuggery, and married him before he went off to war. She has a pre-established family with Alfie and lives her life as a strong Jewish housewife, immersing herself in temple politics. Eventually Tommy comes knocking to do business with Alfie, but then surprisingly, comes again on behalf of Polly, crashing in on the growing Solomons family.”
Relationships: Alfie Solomons/Original Female Character(s)
Comments: 54
Kudos: 154





	1. 1906

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Higgles123](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Higgles123/gifts), [2lazy2login](https://archiveofourown.org/users/2lazy2login/gifts).



I glommed onto a prompt by 2lazy2signIn when the commented on Higgles123’s “Barefoot In The Sand” In a nutshell they wrote: **“** **Polly's daughter was adopted by a Jewish family and raised lovingly in Camden with a different name. She pursued Alfie despite the age gap and thuggery, and married him before he went off to war. At the start of the series she has a pre-established family with Alfie and lives her life as a domestic, but strong Jewish housewife, immersing herself in temple politics. Eventually Tommy comes knocking to do business with Alfie, but then surprisingly, comes again on behalf of Polly, crashing in on the growing Solomons family.”**

“ ‘Ello, children,” Alfred Solomons teased, walking by with scarcely a side glance at the three girls, one of whom was smiling dreamily at him.

“Lovely day, isn’t it, Alfred? Tomorrow’s my birthday ya’ know?”

A lad with a black eye, a fresh, angry scar on his cheek, and a smart mouth turned on his heel. 

“ _Lov-a-ly day, innit, Alfie, dear. Fancy a little cuddle_?” he mimicked her, adding kissy noises, mocking the teen-aged girl whose friend had just jumped in front of him like a ferocious creature about to tear his eyes out and chew his face to bits.

“Ah, go stick a broom up yer arse and sweep behind yourself, Dickie; then maybe you’ll be good for somethin’. Go on, ya’ twat,” Rachel, the youngest of the trio snapped, glaring through big, brown curls that fell over her brow to barely hide eyes dark as ink and comparatively as dangerous as they were black.

“I’ll stick a broom up **_your arse_** _,_ you little…”

“That'll be enough, Dickie,” Alfie chuckled at the girl's moxy, yanking his pal by the collar without turning to look at the girls. “They’re only kids. Leave ‘em be.”

“Fuck ‘em. I don’t care if they’re your sister’s mates, no one talks to Dickie Klein like that and gets away wif it.”

“Today they do, mate…unless you want a match for that shiner and me boot up _your_ arse.”

“Alfred’s a proper dream, in’t he? So chivalrous…” the love-struck Louise drawled, sighing as the young men turned down Buck Street and disappeared out of sight. 

Tomorrow she turned sixteen and all she wanted for her birthday, besides more money to buy penny romance novels, was to have a kiss from the object of her attention, despite a difference of six years in age - five as of tomorrow - and what equated to an ion of life experience.

“Are you havin’ me on?” Rachel asked, twisting her face as if she’d just smelled shite. “Alfred Solomons? A bloody dream? Do us all a favor and have your head examined.”

“Rachel, you’re simply too young and immature to appreciate the grandeur that is Alfred Solomons. He’s the handsomest eligible young man in our temple…in all of London, I suppose. And when you’ve grown up a bit, you’ll see how very wrong you are…and how very right **I am** ,” Louise said with an air of absolute superiority, simply because she was practically sixteen and Rachel Meyer was a mere child of fourteen. _For heaven’s sake, the girl has no need of a brassiere yet, nor has she been visited with her monthlies – so what makes her think she knows anything about men?_

Clara, the oldest at sixteen and two months stooped and beckoned the others closer before speaking confidentially “Gretel Weiss told my cousin, Tillie’s mate that Alfred’s got a big cock and he knows how to use it. Now what do ya’ think of that?”

Louise’s eyes widened, but Rachel laughed before she spoke.

“I think Gretel’s a whore and should keep her trap **and** her legs shut. I bet Alfred’s got a shmeckel the size of your little brother's baby finger, and Paulie's just turned two. That’s what I think! You ain’t even sixteen till tomorrow and he’s twenty-one. He was born April 21, 1885. Don't ya' know nothin'? What would a bloke his age want with a silly girl who’s only been kissed twice?”

“See, I told you about this one!” Louise barked at Clara - who was wondering how Rachel knew Alfred's exact date of birth - before turning back to Rachel with an air of contempt. 

“You’re clearly too young and childish to pal around with mature young women of sophistication like us. And for your information, I’ve been kissed three times, smarty pants. And so you know, Fred Marx put his hands up my camisole after the Sukkot festival and I let him…so there! If you knew anything at all, you'd know that Alfred Solomons is very obviously a male specimen beyond compare...even if **_you_** can't see it. He’s enterprising, has his own flat, **_and_** owns a share in an automobile. And I’m sure what he’s got in his trousers is far larger than Paulie's baby finger…and I intend to find out for myself when we're married someday.”

Rachel fumed, eyes narrowed and breath furiously huffing from her nose.

“He’s a toad...and I bet he’s got a shmeckel the size of a _toothpick_ ,” she quipped angrily, throwing up a nasty hand gesture and stomping off. “…not that you’ll ever get the chance to see it,” she called back.

When she got like this, no one in her steady-tempered family could figure out how Rachel was so hot headed while they were not. She’d wondered herself, though Rabbi Schwartz joked that the good Lord had given the entire family’s share of temper and the ire that came with it to Rachel.

She wasn’t more than a block away when the red-hot anger that coursed through every fibre in Rachel’s body finally reached her eyes, and tears began to blur the path before her. She trudged on.

_Who the bloody hell does Louise think she is, talking like she’ll get those stubby little fingers of her’s on anything in close proximity to Alfred or his willy? Louise has a right big honker; everyone knows it. She makes a bloody pest of herself every time Alfred or his mates come by, acting all sweet and romantical, or asking the lads if Alfred is expected at his mum’s anytime she catches sight of them. Nah, they all must think she’s on the look-out for a husband, since that’s all she and her mum seem to have on their minds now that Louise is of courting age._

_But what if Alfred does think Louise is pretty?_

Nothing about Louise was stubby; she was thin, yet shapely in all the places blokes seem to like…even if she was still only fifteen till tomorrow.

_And she don’t have a big honker either. Her hair's shiny...luxurious even, and her parents let her wear little pearl earrings that draw attention to her face which **is** pretty – everyone says so. Alfred probably thinks so, too. Only bad thing about her is she thinks she’s more grown up and in-the-know than any of the rest of us. Truth be told, she don't know shite. All her worldly learning comes from them stupid lovey-kissy books she's always got her nose stuck between the pages of._

x

Herself, she’d be fifteen in thirty-six days, and for the past five months she’d been sitting in her room at night with the lamp turned off, peering through her bedroom curtains into the flat that was back-to-back and one house over which Alfred took with Dizzy Belowitz. As long as the lamp in her room wasn't lit, there’d be no chance he’d notice her; but she could see him clearly as long as the lights in his were on, and they were usually on when he was home. Too bad it didn't work so well during daylight; a person couldn't see a damned thing no matter how hard they tried, which irked her to no end.

She could see him getting changed at night, which she enjoyed; the broad, manly chest and muscular arms. He did exercises at night, too; probably to make his muscles grow bigger, Rachel assumed. She liked to watch that, especially when he flexed in the big mirror on the wall, turning to admire himself, back and front. When he was without a shirt, she imagined touching him and wondered what his skin felt like, embarrassed that her mum might find out she was sitting in the dark watching Alfred instead of reading her Siddur.

The first time Rachel had seen into his bedroom was in the Spring, on the first night it was warm enough to open the windows for a bit of fresh air. She’d gotten up for a wee when the sound of laughter drew her attention to the half open curtains of his bedroom window. He seemed stuck up these days, and she was about to holler over for him to keep it down like old man Weingart had done three weeks ago when the flatmates had gotten sloshed and made a ruckus.

But tonight, Alfred had Gretel Weiss in his room and he was pulling his bloomin’ undershirt over his head, with some help from the dirty cow. Who, by the way, had **no business** being in **any** man's flat, let alone in a room with a bed. 

He was built solidly and darn he was lovely...unlike that bony moron, Dickie Klein he hung around with all the time. But Alfred had what was clearly _verboten_ \- a tattoo. His goose was cooked if the rabbi found out, since it meant he'd no chance of being buried in sacred ground with the rest of them; not with his body inked against the rules clearly stated in the Torah. But somehow the discovery of this dangerous secret made Alfred all the more intriguing, and Rachel relished being the only female outside of his bedroom who knew it.

Something in the outside room drew Alfred’s attention and he hollered that he was “busy entertainin’”. Then he pulled Gretel to his chest, enveloping her in an embrace punctuated by a kiss very unlike the one’s her mum and dad shared, even at their most affectionate. Something deep within her stirred, whether it was the danger of being a peeper and perhaps being caught, or maybe it was something else, because it sure felt like something else.

Rachel was infamous among her peers for doing things that were batty and downright dangerous, but spying on these two felt far riskier than all the stupid stuff.

When Alfred took off his trousers and Gretel pulled down his underpants, his shmeckel was _definitely_ not the size of child's baby finger, and even at a distance, seeing an grown man's willy for the first time was equally gross and mesmerizing.

Stupid Louise didn't need that piece of information; it was the reason why she had insulted Alfred and his manhood earlier. Had she told the truth, Louise probably would run around town, wagging her chin, claiming to have seen the appendage with her own two eyes. Nope, this was Rachel's secret and Louise wasn't getting even a whiff of it.

With a hungry stare, she hunched forward with eyes squinting, and the quest to witness Alfred's bedroom activities continued. 

Rachel got a fantastic shock that made her heart pound and “down there” start to pulse, particularly when the manky Miss Weiss began to stroke Alfred, putting her mouth where she ought not, and his head lolled back, then to the side toward the window. She dove into bed and pulled the covers over her head, hoping he hadn't seen her lurking by the window. When Rachel's labored breathing slowed, she inched out of bed again, spotting Alfred as his tongue explored the terrain of that disgusting Gretel's breasts…the filth bag. Yet as she stood transfixed, Rachel – who’d never thought of boys in _that_ capacity – realized that a warm sensation had overtaken her nether regions, and stared, rapt, until Alfred turned down the flame on the bedside gas lamp.

_Ah, fiddlesticks!_

For the longest time, and with a very peculiar sense of anticipation, Rachel strained to see into the room, but was disappointed until the lamp glowed brighter after what seemed ages. All that she had been privy to were grunts and groans muffled by distance as her toes grew ice cold while she stood by the window in the pursuit of a peek. Then that pig Gretel was on her feet, bending toward her shift as Alfie sat on the bedside, pulling her backward and nipping playfully at the tramp’s enormous tush, much to Rachel’s revulsion.

 _It would serve Gretel right if ‘er mum and dad got wind of this nonsense._ _Bet she’d get batted upside the head and locked in the house for a month of Sundays if they found out. It’d serve her right, not being able to get near h_ _im._

A bit confused, and frankly, jealous, Rachel never considered that Gretel - who was lusty, but neither filthy nor a pig - was nineteen and might be Alfred's girlfriend - or that it happened to be none of her bloody business who he shtupped.

_Half of North London deserves to know that Gretel Weiss, who walks around as if she were as pure and innocent as one of the gentile’s holy pictures, is a dirty slag, jiggling and suckling the bits and pieces of their neighbor’s son, and doing Lord knows what else to him._

_Nah, can’t do that; not without doing harm to the Solomons family._

_Mrs. Solomons is such a nice lady. Always with mum and Auntie Lettie having tea and chatting. She did my hair up so nicely for my bat mitzvah. And the Mister, he’s me dad’s mate, working on all the festivals and celebrations over at the synagogue…he fills in for the cantor, too, so it’d damage his good name to point a finger at Alfred._

_Dirty ol’ Gretel can’t make me grass up what’s goin’ on between the two of ‘em and hurting our neighbors._

She didn’t want to do wrong by Alfred, either. These days, he acted like a big shot in the street, but there was still a vague memory of moving here from up north, and Alfred and his older sister being real nice to them all, bringing a bottle of wine and a basket of food that included mandelbrot, Rachel’s favorite, and him doing a magic trick where he pulled a coin from behind her ear and let her keep it.

 _For Alfred and his family, I’ll keep my trap shut. But that cow, Gretel better keep her distance or I’m gonna do something that she and I will both regret. It’s my solemn vow,_ Rachel thought as she traced an X over hear heart.

_X_

Three months from today, Gretel would be half mad with fear as an unknown person sent letters threatening to use photographs which didn't actually exist to expose her various intimate encounters with not only Alfred Solomons, but Carl Hirsch, and a handsome Irish boxer who worked with her at the factory, and Benny, the jeweler, Mr. Mendel’s son. Rachel found it easy to get around and stealthily stalk her nemesis who would flee to America to live with her cousin, only to return on holiday seven years later with a big fur coat, a prosperous, portly husband a three lovely children.

In a year, nature had transformed little Rachel Meyer into a lithe beauty with an unnatural talent for seeing the future, and sometimes the past…for everyone, oddly, but herself. Craftily, she’d been able to monetize this _gift_ without her parents getting wind of it, and socked away a very tidy sum which she kept taped under the bureau drawers in her bedroom. 

She could no longer peer at Alfred Solomons through his bedroom window, for alas, he had taken up residence upstairs in the warehouse he called a bakery down by the docks, and there he dwelled as he began to building a small empire that was equally legal and illegal. 

In two and a half years, on the second day, as the men of Temple B’nai Yeshurun formed a _minyun_ and recited the _kaddish_ for her deceased uncle, Alfred Solomons would come face to face with _little Rachel_ again, stunned to see that she had become a pretty young woman in high standing within the Jewish community despite her tender years. 

He soon began to fantasize about his sister’s playmate who had blossomed, yet like himself, had something dark and untamed about her, wondering if he might renew their acquaintance. She was seventeen – certainly of marriageable age – but was that something he wanted? 

Unequivocally, no! Besides, all his ogling wasn’t going to get him fucked when the girl was the upright and pious daughter of his parents’ conservative neighbors.

 _Yet, somehow_ …the way she looked over at him when no one else would notice, with the intensity of a thousand storms in her dark eyes, made the kosher kingpin wish that circumstances had been different. _Coz a lovely, young flower like ‘er don’t belong tangled up with a ne’er do well like me. Ruin her, I would._

Clearly I've fiddled with the age of Polly's daughter to fit the prompt to give Alfie a wife and kids prior to the War's beginning in 1914. I can't really recall if Anna was older than Michael or vice versa, so forgive me for the break from Peakys reality.

Please click the Subscribe button on top to be notified of future chapters. Thanks for reading, kudos and especially any comments you might leave. And take a peek at Women's Business, my other Alfie Solomons/Peaky Blinders fic.


	2. 1909:   We Meet Again

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In the midst of an emergency, Alfie renews his acquaintance with Rachel, who's become as capable as she is irresistible.

"Where the fuck is she?" Solomons roared, bursting through the front doors of Whitechapel Hospital like a one-man stampede.

"Steady now. She's just had a tumble down the front steps, Alf."

Ira, his eldest sister's bespectacled husband saw that his attempt to calm the gangster had failed when Alfie pushed an orderly aside and got into the lift. "I'm just glad someone was able to track you down so you could get back. Your dad and Abigail's with her. She's resting and she'll be fine, Alfie...perfectly fine."

"You a doctor or sumthin' all of a sudden?" Solomons glared, coming eye to eye with the smaller man. "No? Well, I'll figure out for m'self what state she's in when I see 'er with me own eyes. Till then, shut yer pie hole."

Familial relations did not exempt Ira Cushman from his brother-in-law's temper, especially now when there was an emergency involving Alfie's beloved mum. Unceremoniously, Ira was moved aside as Solomons exited the lift, his coat flowing behind him as he picked up speed, looking right then left, till he saw the women from the temple with Rabbi Schwartz hovering around a doorway down at the far end of the long, dimly-lit hallway. 

_This shit's gonna get fixed, and fast. No one sequesters Mumma in the Siberia zone of the third floor. They'll be givin' her a choice room near the matron's station or all hell's gonna come rolling up in this fuckin' joint, it is._

" 'Scuse me. **'Scuse me.** C'mon, let a bloke through to 'is mum," he demanded exercising some reserve, squeezing through the gaggle of visitors as if he was a modern day Moses parting a sea of black-clothed yentas. 

He was relieved to see Miriam Solomons was sitting up and talking. Alfie'd been chewing the inside of his lip and huffing anxiously the whole ride back from Luton, worrying his bleedin' head off that she'd be battered up with a cracked skull, and he'd find her half-dead by the time he finally got to her.

At Abagail's urging, the ladies dispersed, followed by the rabbi and then it was the five of them; Miri tut-tutting all the fuss, Abby fluffing pillows, Ira pacing, and Nathan Solomons lifting his wife's hand to his lips every once in a while as his eyes closed in sweet relief from the fear which had finally subsided. 

And Alfie, not know for patience or inaction, disappeared to ensure that the doctor received sufficient incentive to get to Miri quick as his fuckin' feet'd carry him or else.

The patient was talked out, wishing she could close her eyes and take a little kip, but Nathan kept her chatting since the nurse in charge said her head injury required she remain conscious, at least until the doctor gave the all clear. Sure enough, two minutes after her son returned, not one but three doctors came and examined Miri, recommending an overnight stay which the family agreed to.

Out in the hall, the sound of feet approaching reverberated in the empty, tiled corridor. It was an abundance of caution, since he'd just double-crossed the Sabini brothers, and under such circumstances one never could be complacent. Alfie rose, slipped a hand into the coat pocket and palmed his pistol. With all the nonchalance he could muster so as not to alarm the family, Solomons made his way to the door to survey the situation, only to mutter, "Oh, fuuuck..." under his breath.

"Alfred!" Vera Meyer chirped, smiling to see her best mate's son whose presence had been scarce since her own brother's funeral six months back. 

"Shalom, Mrs. M. How ya' keepin'?" he asked, kissing her cheek and taking her hand between both of his. 

"I'd complain, but who'd listen...eh?" she shrugged. "You remember my Rachel, don't you?" She embarrassed her daughter by tucking a few stray curls behind her ear while the girl stood mute.

_Remember her?_ Since they sat shiva for her Uncle Morty in January, he'd wanked off at least a dozen times fantasizing about Rachel, and somehow, she was more scrumptious than he recalled.

" 'Course I remember 'er.

' _Ello, Rachel_ ," he grinned, releasing Mrs. Meyer's hands and taking the one that hung limp by her daughter's side.

The gangster's large hands, rough but somehow warm and silky, sandwiched Rachel's fingers between his and she felt a white-hot shiver run through her. Never had she been so glad to have taken her gloves off, even if it was forbidden to let her bare skin touch that of a single man. Mum wouldn't mind though, because it was only Alfred.

A few years back, she wondered what he'd feel like, well, today she had the answer.

He felt _wooonderfulll_.... Oh, and he cut a fine figure, smelled awful good, and jeepers, he was dishy.

Normally poised and articulate, Rachel Adalyn Meyer stood in dead silence, stunned by his affect on her, praying he didn't notice how she struggled not to stare like a drooling idiot. It made her feel like a proper boob...like her fourteen year old self instead of acting as if she had a modicum of sophistication, or better yet, the gumption to put forth even a meager effort to behave like a mostly grown Jewish woman.

Then the image of Louise claiming that someday _she'd_ be married to Alfred Solomons suddenly filled Rachel's head and gave her courage. Louise could go scratch; last May she'd married Lewis Lifschitz who couldn't hold a candle to Alfred Solomons on his best day. As usual, Louise had been wrong, and today it was Rachel who had a chance with him if she had the nerve, so she took a deep breath.

"Hello, Alfred. It's a pleasure to see you again. You're looking well." 

"You ain't looking too shabby yerself, Rachel. No more little terror, yeah? All grown up now I see." 

_Oh cripes, he noticed. Keep your head on straight and don't say nothing stupid._

She couldn't remember a time when her heart hammered inside her chest like this, and he was grinning again which made it pound harder. 

_Good gravy, he's handsome._

"Why thank you, Alfred," she smiled before cocking her head toward the doorway in a subtle attempt to clear Vera out of the hall. "Mum, go ahead in and see how Mrs. Solomons' is doin'. Don't let me hold you back."

Mrs. Meyer picked a speck of lint off of Rachel's shoulder, tugged at her collar to straighten it, then gave her a quick inspection which made her feel like a child.

"Now don't go off and disappear, Rachel, dear. Peter's bringing Sasha over and I wanted you here in case she's overly upset about her mum. You know how she gets. In the meantime, start writing your Rosh Chodesh Elul speech. Let's see if you can't beat last year's collection when you speak at temple next week," her mum said before turning to Alfie. 

"My Rachel...she's a smart cookie, Alfred. Ninety-five pounds of pure gold. Did you know that her talk to the congregation raised seventy-nine quid for the Haddasah fund last year? Seventy-nine! That's more than Gale Brewer OR Channah Menard ever raised, and they still crow about their little successes. My Rachel...so humble; she never mentions what a head for numbers she has or how she's so persuasive. A real gem, that's what she is. So if you know any nice, single lads, have them call Mrs. Schecter and who knows...maybe you'll be invited to a wedding, G-d willing."

When he turned, Rachel was beet red at the mention of a match maker who would vet any suitors, and Alfie couldn't help but tease.

"I know a bloke who's looking for a _balabusta_. You know 'im, Rachel -Dickie Klein; he's still on the market. A right catch, too," he winked, and the little grunt of disgust that came out of Rachel tickled Alfie.

"Well, if you're sure he's a nice boy, you have his mama call Mrs. Schecter and we'll see if it turns out right between them. The world must be turning wrong, Alfred because Rachel's the last of the girls who's yet to be promised to someone. Eighteen in three weeks, and no husband lined up. What a favor you'd be doing us if you recommend a good boy. I'll make you a brisket every Thursday for a year! And what about you, Alfred? You're too old to be a singleton, eh? But that's a fish to fry another day.

"Behave, and don't wander off, Rachel," she reminded before heading inside.

" _Tu mir nit keyn toives_ ," Rachel grumbled, "...recommending that putz, Dickie. Him I wouldn't touch him with a ten foot pole, but I'll beat you with it if you pull a trick like that on me, Alfred Solomons. Trust me, I'm the last person you want for a _machatunim_ , you hear?"

"Whoa, whoa, whoa. Listen to you, talkin' tough. Dickie's a fine lad; fine indeed. He'd make you a good husband."

"If he's so great, then why's your sister, Sasha betrothed to Peter Yankel and not fixin' to become the next Mrs. Klein, hmm?"

"Savin' him for you, Rachel, that's why."

"Yeah? Well don't bother. He's not improved himself or his lot in life over the past five years, plus he looks like a dead dog's bollocks, so pawn him off on someone with low standards. Not that I'm looking, but if I was, I assure you my standards are much higher than Dickie. Hmmph."

"Oh yeah...how high? Who'd suit a fine young lass like you?"

"Well, for one thing, I have brains and ambition. I'd need a man whose much the same, not some lump on a log."

"Go on..."

"A self-starter...someone who knows what he wants and goes after it, not a shlub who waits for someone to drop it in his lap..."

"Yeah...continue."

"No shrinking violets for me, Alfred. I see myself with someone who's got a fire in his belly, a man who's a leader, who's got a strong presence and is looked up to by others. Wouldn't hurt if he was blessed with good looks and a strong body. Know anybody like that?"

A mischevious smile betrayed the will to appear neutral, and along with the twinkle in her eyes, it became crystal clear to Solomons that Rachel knew exactly what she was doing and who she was referring to. That demure sauciness had indeed stirred Alfie's interest, and if it hadn't been an impropriety of epic proportions to their people, he would have taken the liberty and snatched a kiss from those lips that labored not to give away what she strove valiantly to hide.

"Right! Well I know a few blokes, and maybe one of 'ems who you're lookin' for. Think yer mum would mind if I took you out to The Crescent Room and we discussed your prospects over dinner?"

Once again Rachel fought her facial muscles, straining to preserve the final shred of modesty she possessed.

One day later, Miri Solomons was resting in her own home comfortably, and Vera Meyer had her daughter over visiting their neighbor three minutes after Miri's son arrived to check in on her.

The day after that, Alfie was back, sipping tea with Rachel in her parent's sitting room while Vera and Miri _kvelled_ that soon they could family and not just friends as they spied on the young people from the kitchen.

That year Rachel's Rosh Chodesh Elul appeal to fund the Haddasah's good works raised an astonishing one hundred and eighty seven pounds. Most came from the congregation, but a plain pay-packet envelope filled with bills (one or two with a curious rust-red splatter) put the campaign so far ahead that Rabbi Schwartz visited to thank Rachel not one, but three times.

For the next two months, the couple shared tea in the parlors of either family, went to lunch, then a fancy afternoon tea - always with one of Alfie's sisters in attendance. Once, when Abby has gone to the loo, Rachel pulled Alfie out of sight and gave him a kiss and made him swear not to tell anyone or she'd break his legs. He liked a good Jewish girl with a pair of brass balls.

Every Friday before Shabbat began, Solomons had a squirt called, Ollie deliver Rachel's favorite flowers and a box of chocolates along with a bottle of wine for her parents and the sack of sweeties or marbles for her younger brother, Marvin. And on the first Wednesday in October, while Vera and Rachel listened with their ears pressed against the parlor door, Alfie had a private conversation with Stanley Meyer. 

It had been a long two months filled with objections to the age difference between Rachel and the 24 year old Solomons, and naturally, great concerns about the rumors Stanley had heard regarding some of Alfred's business dealings that included people getting roughed up. Weekly arguments, followed by tears, threats, begging, unkind words, and always his daughter's persuasive assertion that she was convinced that Alfred was a good match, her father buckled to the pressure from his two females and relented. With both women looking on, he penned a message saying Alfred might want to come and chat before he took Rachel out for a stroll.

"I knew it...I knew it. I can hardly believe we'll be sisters," Sasha Solomons - soon to be Sasha Yankel - shrieked and hugged the stuffings out of her friend when Rachel raced over with the news of her father's blessing. "Please promise you'll set a date soon so we can be married close together and have children and raise them at the same time. And you and Alfred can buy a house near us... Oh...it'll be such fun, Rachel."

And it was fun. Sasha and Peter married in late October, and Alfie and Rachel on the second Sunday of November in a ceremony considered rather lavish for their community, followed by a spectacular celebration that lasted far into the next day, long after the new Mr. and Mrs. Solomons had slipped off to begin their life together - in a home situated back to back with Sasha and Peter. 

On the way out of the party, Rachel couldn't help but stop and say a special good-bye to Louise Lifschitz and her husband, blithely taunting her friend in a whisper that she was sorry that she'd be the only one to know the truth they argued about four years back.

As she lay with her husband, both dizzy in the afterglow of the consummation of their union, Rachel burst into laughter and confessed that through the window of another home back-to-back with her own, she had spied on a younger Alfie. He rolled over and leaned against his wife, guffawing and teasing at the revelation, cheekily denying that he ever had any females in his bed chamber, and couldn't recall any girl named Gretel. She even told him about the _schmeckel as big as a child's baby finger_ crack, and Alfie's chuckling turned into an, "I'll show you a child's baby finger, missus..." challenge as they gave it another go in their little house on Willett Street.

To her marriage, Rachel brought a small dowry from her parents, consisting of cash, linens, a pewter menorah, a mezzuzah and all that was needed to make Shabbat in their own home. She handed Alfie a shoebox filled with pound notes she'd earned telling of the pasts and futures of countless people. Sadly, she apologized to Alfie for her inability to answer his questions about their future since she seemed unable to read such details for herself, though he sat attentively as she rattled off information about his own past, claiming to foresee prosperity in his endeavors, and a collaboration with a stranger that would make him wealthier, but bring frustration and petty jealousy.

They treated each other with great respect and appreciation, and like the balabusta she was, Rachel catered to Alfie and he loved her well in every way he could concieve.

There'd be the arrival of baby Daniel on a bitterly cold January day in 1911, two months before Alfie was stabbed by the Italians and left for dead outside the bakery. If not for the unexpected arrival of Ollie, back to fetch his pay which he'd forgotten, Rachel would have been a widow before her 20th birthday. So when baby number two eventually came in November of the following year, they named her, Olivia with appreciation for the role Ollie played in Alfie's survival.

The success of Solomons' legitimate business, as well as the sketchy stuff waxed and waned as conflict with the Sabini outfit came and went, but no stranger arrived to give rise to Solomons' greater success. And in spite of the rumblings from a few of the men at the synagogue, Rachel remained a bright light at temple, lending legitimacy and a moral front to Alfie and his dealings. Her fundraising and his generous gifts to the synagogue brought respect to the couple in the eyes of their fellow Jews. No matter what anyone might say against Alfie, his wife knew that where it really mattered - in the home - her husband was a doting father, loving son, and exceeded any ideas she might have had about what a good husband might be.

But since the stabbing in 1911, she was often plagued with fear about the future, his longevity and being left to fend for herself and the children. Little by little, Rachel was able to get him to answer questions and open up about his legitimate operations, then the unlicensed distilling of rum and sale of it to shpielers and shady characters to avoid taxes. He never would talk about the protection racket, so she took the opportunity when it arose. He'd brought home the ledgers at the end of the year and she could figure out his system of coding since it was virtually identical to how he kept their household budget and books. Only then she felt at ease with their financial stability, but vowed to herself that if G-d forbid anything happened to Alfie again, she'd run those businesses until he was on his feet again, and they'd all have a roof above their heads and food in their bellies.

TODAY'S YIDDISH LESSON

_balabusta - a Super Housewife; someone who keeps a good home, is a great wife, mother, cook, a credit to her family and community, etc..._

_Tu mir nit keyn toives - Don't do me any favors_

_machatunim - enemy_

_kvell - to gush excitedly_


	3. 1914:  There's More Than One Way To Avoid The War

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Sabinis go to extraordinary measures to evade serving their country, while Alfie concerns himself with what they'll do while he's gone and how he can keep the women in the family from going off the deep end.

A big **Oy vey!** I realized that I had inadvertently made Anna/Rachel dangerously close in age to John Shelby, which she clearly was not. So off the rails we go. If you will, imagine that Polly's had Anna taken from her well before Michael. Or go with the flow; that's what I'm going to do rather than change dates and ages or throttle myself for doing bad Math while juggling too much at one time.

"Pass me another bun, bubbeleh. They're delicious; something new?"

Stanley Meyer grabbed a second cinnamon-raisin twist from the plate his daughter held out as the extended family sat eating dessert at her Shabbat table.

"Still Bubbe's recipe, but I added a pinch of nutmeg to the dough and a splash of rum to the icing. Take some home for your coffee in the morning."

**"Gimme. Gimme."**

"Patience, Livie," the beleaguered young mum chastised her daughter. She continued the never ending cycle of seeing to the toddler and intercepting a plethora of feats of _daring do_ that her son got up to, sighing before dragging Daniel out from under the table _**again**_ by his leg. "This child's got ants in his pants and he's gonna be the death of me. You hear that, Daniel?"

"Ants -ants -ants. In my pants - pants - pants," he warbled before sticking his tongue out at Rachel.

"Alfred was a handful as a child. Speaking of whom, this is the third Friday in a row that he's not been here in time for the start of sabbath. Trouble at work?"

"No trouble, Mrs. Solomons..."

"Rachel, dear, we're not back to that, are we? Mum...mother...Miri...anything less formal than Mrs. Solomons. You've known me practically your whole life, love."

"Sorry, mum, my head's done in with these children and... Well no, Alfie says he's getting the, um...ovens at the bakery sorted, and the flour silos cleaned and any repairs made. All this talk of a war's got him in crisis mode since it's all he hears day in and day out from the men. The younger lads are excited and every last one's vowing to sign up. And any man over twenty-five is concerned for how their families 'll survive if they're sent overseas." She pushed a strand of hair off her face, turning back to Livie who was chewing the edge of the tablecloth. "Let's hope it's overseas and not in our back yard."

Nathan Solomons picked something out from between his back teeth, surreptitiously glancing at Stanley and then toward Ira and Peter, who squirmed uncomfortably in his chair. Solomons' only reprieve from the impending sense of doom in his heart was that Marvin Meyer at just fourteen was too young to serve. However, both son-in-laws were prime candidates, as was Alfred who had already told the older men he planned to enlist.

And unless the Army was taking on geezers, he and Stanley were going to have to pick up the slack and spearhead the entire family, and frankly, the two of them were a bit out of practice now that all their kids save for Marvin were long grown. Nathan imagined that what he and Stan had to look forward to was a daily grind of hard work and _tsuris_ : the upkeep of two anxious mothers, three verklempt young wives, five children missing their dads, two brand new babies, all of who would need constant reassurance...and Marvin, who was the kind of kid you needed eyes in the back of your head to keep up with.

The kid idolized Alfie, and while the women folk hadn't a clue about everything that went on down at that bakery, Marvin's blabber-mouth chum had an uncle with a busted hand and a broken arm after skipping off to the tracks when he was in fifteen deep to Alfie and full of excuses for not paying up. Marvin's antics and sudden interest in being Alfie's protégé - a plea which the young crime boss shot down - meant they needed to keep a close eye on the lad and tote him around to more wholesome activities than he could find for himself. But in the places where one might seek parochial companionship, the talk was grim and Marvin slurped it up like it was matzoh ball soup.

The chatter was constant down at the synagogue and the Workmens' Circle, and being Jews, they tended to focus on the worst, dissecting every element over and over, producing scenarios that almost always pointed to their people bearing the burden of all outcomes. And the causes of strife that might lead to war: politics, greed on a mammoth scale, the need for the powerful to dominate the common man, and worst of all, Imperialism. It was no longer a matter of _if_ , but rather _when_ a military action would be declared by the government. 

Ira, nervous enough at the lull in conversation spoke without thinking, breaking the brief silence that hung thick in the candle-lit room.

"I've already mentioned this to Abby and to Alfie, as well. If the Crown needs me, I'll answer the call for men to defend this nation's honor." He immediately regretted opening his mouth when his wife sprang from her seat and grabbed the tea pot that she'd just set down, scurrying red-faced into the kitchen, unable to hide her upset.

"Ahh...speak of the devil and he doth appear," Peter Yankel said as his wife's brother came in, filling the doorway with his exaggerated presence.

"Very funny. You think yer wife likes you calling her brother - _who I might remind you is your boss, yeah?_ \- the devil? Alfie gave his brother-in-law a friendly shove and placed his coat on the hook and he sat at the head of the table beside Rachel, noting that for someone so young she looked grey and knackered. 

"Someone die?"

"Daddy, Daddy, Daddy..." 

"Look, Daddy. Look at m' train; it's just pulled into the station..." Daniel said, rolling it the length of Alfie's leg.

Alfie Solomons pulled Daniel to his side with one arm and the other cradled Livie's head against his hip before heaved down into his seat like a burdened soul.

 _If only this could be just another ordinary Friday_ , he thought.

Alfie loved the dining room of his home on Shabbat now that their's was the house with the most space to host the entire family, even if they were squeezed in elbow to elbow. Rachel set a fine table; the food was abundant and excellent; its aroma filled the house. In particular, the extra lamps and candles she lit made the place glow like in paintings that depicted happy places...a far cry from the memories of his youth. A single room lit with just the glow from the family's only gaslight once the Shabbat candles were extinguished. Those days had been dark in many ways, yet today he was able to give his lot the best of everything and he had more than even his wildest imagination could have conceived back then, when a full belly would have meant there was bliss in his world.

"We've just been talking about the prospect of war, son."

His mother hadn't said any more than that, but it was enough to send Sasha bolting to the kitchen in tears. Many times they'd heard the stories of their mum's family struggles in Russia and now that bloody country and others were bringing their problems to bedevil them all and draw their brother and husbands into the clutches of danger and death.

"I'll see to them," Miri said, excusing herself.

"What do you think, Alfred?" his mother-in-law asked, "Nonsense, eh? We haven't anything to worry about, do we? We're safe as houses."

He pulled the plate that Rachel had prepared in front of him and dug in, not letting what might happen, but hadn't yet, spoil his appetite, though he uncharacteristically rubbed his hands together before they stroked firmly over his mouth. Concern - Rachel could see it.

"Don't pay to be delusional, Mrs. M. M'self, I'm preparing so the business can continue to run and keep a roof over these children's heads and food in their bellies when my time comes." He shoveled a forkful of Rachel's brisket - good as her own mum's - into his mouth and exhaled.

"I'm going, too, Alf. Don't forget that," Ira announced. "My own family's been in this country for three generations and if the King needs me, I'll do my duty." Alfie's eyes shot over at the man, who through his soda bottle glasses would be lucky to see anything that didn't move, so what good would he be in a war.

"It's comin', all right. Yeah...it is. But only a fool wastes the moments before by giving over their mind to worryin'. Ain't that right, Livie?" he joked, rubbing his whiskers over his little daughters cheek, as the tiny dear dissolved into giggles.

* * *

In the kitchen, the women washed and dried, kvetched and cried, letting their imaginations bring them to dark places in a grim future. Rachel stood at the sink, rubbing the dishrag over a teacup so many times that her mother chided she'd wash the flowers off it. She stared outside into the garden as Sasha wept while Abagail went on and on about widowhood. The older women bounced babies and corralled older children, laboring to calm the fears of Alfie's sisters whose bodies were coursing with pregnancy hormones.

Somehow she could tell that Abby had nothing to worry about; envisioning Ira as a very old man...with even thicker glasses, if that was possible, and a head of white hair running around a garden chasing after grandchildren not any older than her two were now. For Sasha, the imaginings weren't quite as clear, but she saw Peter in military kit, and flashes of him reporting to a commanding officer, though she was quite sure he was not the thick of any fighting. For a moment she closed her eyes and tried harder than ever before, hoping to get a vision of Alfie, but she saw nothing.

It was always that way. Her own past and future escaped whatever it was in her brain that captured glimpses of other people's lives. Tonight, Alfie's wife couldn't decide if that was a curse or a blessing.

The men convened in the sitting room, as was their custom while the women folk cleaned up, chatting about whatever it was women folk discussed on their own. Marvin nicked a puff of his dad's cigar before he was caught and got a smack, then laughed as he flicked good matches into the fireplace and watched them spark. Ira lit a cigarette, staring into the flames, while Stanley and Nathan vied for the weekly title of backgammon champion, trying to conceal the worries they harbored. 

Alfie was spent after the day he'd had, and settled back in the comfy chair by the fire with his pipe, nodding politely at Peter who had been licking his lips constantly and still hadn't stopped.

Recruits would be molded into soldiers and trained, but Peter was a particularly gentle sort and under no imaginable scenario did Alfie envision him surviving in a battle of any importance, let alone a war. Peter was a lad with intellect. For Christ's sake, he spoke five languages, was a walking abacus, and had a head for business that Alfie'd never seen the likes of. But the lad was soft...so soft, which made him a good fit for Sasha but not for soldiering. He might be more likely to get others killed than die himself. And at work, Peter quaked in his boots when the going got rough - and that was other men's tussles on the docks, never his own. 

_These lads ain't goin' anywhere._

It could be two weeks...four...or a couple of months at the outside, but the Crown was going to recruit every last one of them, and he was going to have to do something about this situation, though there was no question of him shirking his obligation like some fucking cunt Italian.

The rumors had come in dribs and drabs, but were confirmed at ten this morning. Jeff Kahn had come back from a delivery at the Coach & Four, dropped into the seat across from Alfie's desk and slammed his cap down with a huff.

"What the fuck you think you're doing, mate?" Solomons' eyes narrowed at his worker who was clearly overstepping.

"Listen to this bullshit, Alf. The stinkin' Italians - every last one of them dirty bastards - have managed a wholesale exemption should soldiers be needed."

" _Every_ one of the Sabinis, you sure about that?"

"The rotters' got some bloke to forge documentation that says they came here from Italy as kids but were never naturalized, even though they was all born right here in this city," Jeff bellowed, tapping his finger vigorously on the desk. "Harry Sabini's been bragging about it all over London like its somethin' to be proud of, and the barman, Ezra just told me all about it. Seventeen filthy mugs free from service, and that shit stain Derby Sabini paid to have their birth documents lifted and destroyed from the central archives so no one could prove otherwise. It'd serve 'em right if we went to that social club o' their's and bashed their heads in. Kind of a war of our own...against the Italians...like practice for the real thing, eh?"

"Fuckin' Sabinis," Alfie shook his head. "Dirty sons o' bitches."

The Italians could be counted on to put themselves and coin before King, Country or any sense of duty. And now he'd have to add worrying about the wops taking over what he'd built up and battled for when he shipped out.

* * *

"Night, mum. I'll pop in day after next and pick up that chair what needs fixing," Alfie said, kissing Miri then shaking Nathan's hand. "Night night, Mrs. M...Stanley. Home safe, eh?" He handed his father-in-law a box of cigars as he walked out the door. "Enjoy, yeah? And keep Marvin away from 'em." He tossed a coin to the boy who lit up like a bonfire, which Alfie worried was the direction this fire-loving little chap was headed in.

"Ollie's outside in the motor car; just got licensed to drive. You girls go get in back with the kids and keep warm; I need another minute with your husbands. It'll only take two shakes...go on," he gently commanded. "You two...into the kitchen." he said, pointing toward the room.

"Well, good night, all." Rachel called back as she carried Livie up the steps and cocked her head toward the settee where Daniel was out cold, receiving a nod of confirmation from her husband who closed over the sitting room door, and then the kitchen door behind himself, knowing he was up to something if no one was meant to hear him.

"Right! Every last one in this family's messin' their drawers over a war that's not yet come. **Stop talking about it!**

"You, Peter, are clearly fuckin' scared shitless to the extent where I'm wonderin' when the offending aroma of said shit is going to come wafting under me bloody nose. 

"And, Ira...can you fuckin' see three feet in front of yourself without them glasses? They don't make 'em any stronger, so your fucked, mate. _Unfit For Duty_ , that's what they'll mark you. Stop talking about this nonsense and getting Abby wound up."

"Alfie, I had an appointment with the the doctor and my optometrist last week, and just in case, I asked both if I'd be fit to serve in the event..."

"In what event, Ira? Eh? The event that **I** actually let **you** ship off and leave me sister on 'er own with what'll soon be three little ones?"

"But Alfie..."

"But Alfie nothin'. C'mere; let's do the patented Alfie Solomons' eye test for half-blind bastards. Can you see Peter's hands? Yeah? Well, Peter, place both hands on the table and splay the fingers and let's test Ira's vision. Go on...that's right."

He reached behind this back with one hand, producing a knife and grabbed Peter's wrist, pinning it to the table. It happened in an instant. Peter's screams filled the house as a knife cut through bone - the entire first knuckle of his right index finger severed clean off, then Alfie spun to smash his fist into Ira's bespectacled eye.

The knife clattered as it landed in the sink and Alfie turned, hearing Rachel's footsteps pound on the staircase before she burst into the kitchen, followed momentarily by Abby who wailed and pushed past her brother when she saw her husband doubled over holding his face. Tears began flowing as she moved Ira's hand to inspect the gash that was mercifully next to the eye and not in it, completely ignoring Peter who was on the floor holding his hand as he rocked and moaned.

Solomons - his gruesome duty to the family done - sighed and ran bloodied fingers through his disheveled hair, then walked calmly into the parlor to make sure his little boy was still asleep.

"What's happened, Petey?" Sasha wailed, following the shrieks. "What happened, Rachel? Alfie?"

"Your bloody brother's cut off my fucking fingerrrr......," her husband screamed, half pain - half shock. "Ahhhh...it fucking hurts! You're a goddam mad man, Alfie!" he hollered at Solomons who was back in the room.

"Sasha, your bloody brother, _which would be me, yeah_ , I've just saved both you girls from becomin' widows. You really ain't fit for combat duty now, Ira, nor is our Peter whose trigger finger is no longer serviceable, even for nose pickin'. The four of you will thank me later."

" _Thank_ you?" Sasha howled, "Are you off your rocker, you stupid shit? Who does something like this?"

"The Crown may take you both, lads, but you'll never see a day on the lines because of the last thirty seconds, so fuck off if you can't see what a gift this is."

"Alfie!" Rachel clutched at his bloodied shirt. "What have you done?" Her lovely face turned into a theatrical tragedy mask, mouth agape and crying as she sunk to the floor.

"Just told you. He can get on just fine without a finger tip. But there ain't no army that'll commission a fuckin' gun to be specially made for just one man who's missing an inch of his digit, so there ya' go...he's in the clear. Keep it clean so there's no infection" he said as he chucked a fresh tea towel at Sasha.

"And ol' Ira...well his vision weren't that good to start with, so what the fuck. Now everyone go home and calm yer'selves down. Come mornin', you'll see I've done the right thing. Now go...trot on."

"You bloody _shtick drek_. I'll never forgive you for this, Alfie...as long as I live, you animal." Abagail's hate-filled words hurt him more than the full-fisted wallop she delivered to his face, but he was all right with his actions. The quickly-conceived plan would have little impact on Peter and Ira in the long run, and they were now assured a chance at life, an option that might not present itself to him before long. 

The price to pay for the victims was lesser than for the assailant, especially when the parents got wind of this. So as his younger sister wrapped her husband's hand and helped him to the automobile, Alfie sucked his teeth and looked straight ahead after Sasha slammed the door in Rachel's stunned face.

He sunk back into his chair, heaved a sigh of unavoidable regret over duty, and lit his pipe as if it was just an ordinary Friday night.

In the show, it appears that Sabini and his henchman, Georgie, at least, haven't served in the war and virtually mock the Shelbys' involvement. The part about how they shirked service was my little dig at what would have been very shameful behavior in those times.

_tsuris - big worries_

_shtick drek- piece of shit_

Many thanks for the support to Higgles123, 2lazy2signin, KatieR,Cwhite, Redhood1115, snoopster20, siennax3, TaylorChow, vickybean, Seawizard, OrangeM_12, Rosie020, a_nomadic_soul, Nerdwrter5, Angus177, XDandylionX, and the guests who have left kudos.

**Up next: Alfie and the lads ship out, and Rachel gets a very odd feeling as the Small Heath Rifles leave for the coast.**


	4. Fare Thee Well

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In the aftermath of Alfie's violent effort to keep his brothers-in-law safe from war service, he and Rachel work to smooth things over before the Army calls and he must leave for France. Can the family get over Peter's finger being severed and Ira's piss poor eyesight being jeopardized...for all the right reasons?
> 
> Amidst the steam and coal smoke of a London train station, young Mrs. Solomons gets a very funny sensation as the family bids farewell to Alfie and the troops. It's a feeling that she's never had before, and makes her wholly unnerved because she can feel it is about her.

"C'mon now...up to bed with ya'," Alfie asked for the third time, only to have Rachel rip her arm from his grasp.

"Take your hands off me," she hissed, "What you did tonight is unforgivable and here's you making bloody plans to go off to war, leaving me to deal with the fall out of whatever the fuck that was that you did to those lads. Thanks a lot, you bastard!"

This shit, Alfie Solomons did not need; not now, particularly when the lot of them would be back eventually screaming down the house and setting his teeth on edge.

After waving off her words, he planted himself in a kitchen chair and watched Rachel who mindlessly looked through the window into the darkened garden but never toward him. If this was how she wanted to play it, Rachel could pour on the guilt as thick as she liked; he wasn't apologizing or explaining. Wasn't his bloody style, nor his practice. 

Eventually, maybe they'd all see the logic in his actions; maybe they wouldn't. Fuck it. Wasn't a problem he'd be loosing any sleep over, especially since he'd done things in his work that made the last hour seem like child's play.

Facts remained facts; war is no place for blokes who'd be a liability to their comrades. Their personal shortcomings were the reason that Peter was kept on the legal stuff and Ira had been hired at the transport authority as a conductor; a favor repaid to Solomons. Petey could still do the ledgers with a bit of finger missing, and old Ira, well, if he could punch tickets and take fares with his shit eyesight before, he could continue the work now since his vision hadn't been worsened.

"Well listen, missus. I'm goin' up to bed and you can either join me or stay down here. Suit yourself; makes no difference to me."

Finally Rachel's eyes turned toward her husband, filled with all the fury of thousand tempests. 

Alfie could see it as she glared silently. He'd shrugged off his wife's feelings: shock, utter confusion, rage, embarrassment at his mad actions, and now Alfred Solomons had _the bloody nerve_ to claim it made no difference if she stood with her muddled emotions while he fucked off to bed. It took only a tick and she lunged at Alfie, slapping and pounding, grabbing at his hair, and when he held her off she'd bit down through his sleeve and he let go of her, jumping back in disbelief that she'd gone this far. But it was when she jerked the drawer open and grabbed the cleaver, huffing and wild-eyed, that Solomons knew she meant business.

"Get the fuck out of this house, Alfie...or I swear, I'll hack you to bits. **GO!** " she screamed, her face red and sweaty, and dark curls moist, falling across her woeful eyes.

He'd been gone a good ten minutes and she remained watching the door with the cleaver in hand, breathing deep, mired in bewilderment. 

Solomons' footsteps were the only sound on the quiet cobble streets. He headed toward the rum house with only his thoughts to keep him company, considering what he'd just done was the sort of thing he did to enemies and fools who thought - very fuckin' wrongly - that they might get over on him. Yet tonight he'd done the unimaginable without a moment's warning and whatever reasoning he might give, not a one of them would find it acceptable. 

Rachel raged, yet didn't fear that she or the children were in danger, but if they were, she'd make good on her threats. However, she imagined Abby frantically ringing up her parents and telling the tale, or Sasha in a heap on the floor, crying like she was so often prone to do, in a tizzy and less likely to tend to Peter's hand. The Solomons would inevitably run knocking on her parents door with the news, and the bottom line was that tomorrow would be a day from hell and every last one of them would be back and calling for Alfie's head on a pike. That was, if they didn't come calling tonight. 

Problems like this were things she and Alfie faced together, concocting plausible stories and pre-planned excuses meant to keep those closest to them in the dark about the true nature of Solomons' always growing prosperity or the evidence of a scuffle. Tonight, Rachel sat in her kitchen angry, yet missing her partner, making a mental list of possible excuses for the in-laws who'd be back with questions. And Alfie was off G-d knows where, now that she'd driven him into the streets. She needed him now because the only way they could face this was as a team, the way they operated best.

He'd a key, but she locked the door in case, so there'd be warning if he was back in the house and angry. Instead, he spent the night drawn into an uncomfortable lump on the settee in his office and when he stirred the next morning, his bones would be as unforgiving as his wife. 

Smacking his lips to moisten his dry mouth and scratching his head, the Kingpin of Camden Town stretched and got up for a piss before donning his hat and the overcoat he used as a blanket, then headed back to Willett Street and the drama awaiting his return.

The sight of the second-hand Wolseley, with it's unmistakable green interior and the scratch down the side made him groan when he turned the corner and saw it parked out front. It meant his parents and in-laws were about. And every last tyke in the family was in the front garden digging up plants and getting themselves covered in soil. That'd be his fault, too, he reckoned.

"Daddy! Daddy!"

"Dandy Dan, my little man - you a'right?" he asked, hoisting his red-cheeked son up for a hug.

"Where ya' been, Daddy? You got some sleep in your eye," the boy asked, scratching a bit of something from the corner of Alfie's eye with his dirty nails.

"Daddy's been at the bakery - big order for the King. Said he'd got a bunch o' little lads just your size over at the castle squakin' that they's always hungry; so he asked me to bake them some bread."

"Where's my bread, Daddy?"

"Them little buggers ate every last crumb, my boy. I'll bring you bread and a big box of biscuits tomorrow. Aye?"

"Ta, Daddy. And for Livie, too?" the boy smiled. 

"Yeah, mate. That's nice - you lookin' out for your sister. Keep doin' that like a proper little gent."

"All the grannies and grandads are inside waitin'. Uncle Ira's broken his specs and he looks a fright, the pussy cat stuck his paws into me porridge again and Mum says she's gonna brain it next time. They made us all come out into the garden, I'm gettin' cold and Mum won't let us inside. Why's me aunts cryin'? It's working me nerves."

"Like yer old dad, you're a man of few words, Dan. I guess they must've heard there was no bread left. Everyone knows Alfie Solomons makes the best bread in all London. That's why they're cryin'."

"Aw'right Daddy, but don't forget my bread. I'll remind ya', eh?"

"Yeah. Now let me go in and see the big folks, then I'll let you in," the father said, wrapping his scarf around his son's neck.

* * *

As she suspected, it did take teamwork to address the furor and fears of the family, but they muddled through despite Alfie clearly growing wearily perturbed more than once.

The bruhaha ended with Rachel's, not Alfie's persuasion, where the clan reluctantly had to admit that the madness of the night before was done for the right reasons, but in the worst _execution_ , no pun intended by Solomons' wife.

While Abby and Ira left abruptly before the rest tucked into lunch that was fit for a king, Sasha pulled Alfie aside when she departed. In the corner of the entry she kissed his cheek.

"I hate what you did, but you did it for love of family. I know your intentions were good, but Alfie, I'm not a girl that needs looking after any more. Please, respect Peter and me in the future. I don't want him going off to fight, but you've got to let us make our own decisions. Aye?"

"Yeah, I will."

In bed that night, Rachel watched as her husband peeled off his shirt, revealing the crimson circular bruise.

"How'd you manage that?" she cocked her chin toward the injury.

"Them's your teeth that you embedded into me flesh, my gentle dove. You done a good job on me, too."

She recalled biting him and crawled over the covers to wrap her arms around his waist.

"Next time you use your mouth on me, can I make a suggestion that'll be more appealing to us both?" the jew said with a saucy grin. "Might want to consider it now, seeing as I expect you'll be wantin' to make amends to your dear husband for the atrocities of last night. Maybe I'll return the favor."

Knowing that this may be one of the waning number of evenings together, his suggestion was put into action. Though afterwards as she lay in his arms, Rachel talked incessantly and her nervousness about the future became evident.

"Shhh, love. No tears."

* * *

A mere seventeen nights together, many spent savoring physical intimacy, and all spent trying to capture a lifetime of hopes and emotions, Alfie prepared to depart in the morning. 

Ira would be spared military service as Alfie predicted, yet Peter overcame any fears and was accepted into the Royal Navy with an appointment as attache to the brass at the embarkation point in the port of Harve, safe and away from the action.

Those precious nights allowed them to decide together that while the fathers-in-law would run the life of the family when necessary, and because of her insistence and Alfie's absolute trust in her abilities, Rachel would handle the day to day at the bakery. She'd have help with the sketchy stuff from Abe and Morrie, two not-so old timers that could keep trouble with the Sabinis in check.

That morning, washing the cups from a rushed breakfast in the dark, pre-dawn hours, Rachel burst into tears.

"What's meant to be will be, love. But lemme assure you that I ain't got plans of succumbing to any Boche twats across the sea when I got you and those two kids to come home to. However, should the impossible come to pass," he pulled her close and whisptered into her hair, "I want you to know you've been a good wife - the best. I can leave knowing that you'll take care of them two children and our concerns till I get back."

It killed him to listen to Rachel sucking back tears so hard she snorted and choked. 

"Alf," she sniffled, "I got something I want you to take with you - kind of a good luck charm." A delicate hand dipped into the pocket of her dress and withdrew a ha'penny which she handed to him as he looked at her quizzically. "Take it...I've had it since the day we met."

"What?"

She chuckled sadly. "You pulled it from behind my ear the day we moved in on Moulton Street when I was four. I kept it as my lucky charm. Even rubbed it and wished you'd ask me to be your girl forever when we first started keepin' company. I want you to have it for luck."

"Aw fuck, now don't go makin' me get all verklempt. You keep it to remind you of me till I'm back safe."

"No. Take it. I'll feel better if you do."

"Yeah, a'right. But I don't need it. Got all the luck in the world when I took you as me bride, din't I?"

* * *

"You didn't need to come, Rach. It'll only make it harder," Alfie said on the platform of Victoria Station as men mustered on the track side of the ropes cordoning the public off from the tracks.

"No way I was leaving you to board that train without me being the last face you saw."

"Yeah, and I appreciate it. Jesus...yer dad's bawling over there. You're gonna have a time getting him calmed down so he can drive home. Fuck, this place is crawling with so many soldiers they're like lice on a beggar's balls."

An officer, the most serious man that Rachel had ever seen, or perhaps he just frightened her, approached Alfie. 

"King's Own Light Infantry? Corporal Alfred Solomons?" he asked after having the man pointed out by a messenger.

"Yes, sir," Alfie saluted, making Rachel chuckle to see him addressing someone as a superior.

"Assemble mid-track in ten minutes. You're the Jewish brigade, correct?"

"Yes, sir."

"Your sergeant has been delayed and Major Stern has asked that you be put in charge. No delays, Corporal, we're on a tight schedule today."

"Yes, sir."

"You haven't even boarded the train and you're in charge," Rachel smiled weakly, trying to buoy her husband's spirits in some small way. 

She felt woozy, what with the steam and noise from the trains and all of the men and their families in the stiflingly hot station. A hulking black locomotive packed with cheerful lads waving and blowing kisses to loved ones pulled out of the station with a loud start, and made her jump with fear as time ticked away and her husband clutched her as he reached a hand out to his father and Rachel's dad in a final good-bye.

"Royal Warwickshire Yoemanry, Fifth Batallion - hop to,soldiers. Assemble at Track 3 and none of this lollygagging. Shelby, I put you in charge of these men and they're scattered already. That doesn't bode well. Move it," another officer barked at troops lugging their kit and hurrying past the Solomons, who were making their final good-byes.

"John, keep up. Where's Danny?"

An icy chill ran through Rachel. Her mind, or the portion of it that saw the pasts and futures of others buzzed in a way unfamiliar to her. Certainly someone was walking over her grave as the stranger's voice made he shudder for reasons unknown. His words were blurry but something familiar echoed, boucing around in her head like a child demanding Rachel's attention.

She opened her eyes to see a man with blazing blue eyes and a harried face looking to find the men he was with. He seemed infinitely more serious than the officer who addressed her husband, and she stared, only to avert her gaze when he turned to meet her eyes.

"Tommy! Tom, over here," a gangly man called in a deep voice.

"Arthur, hurry - train's leaving in two minutes. Freddie and Jeremiah are at the track, where you ought to be. Where's Scudboat?"

"Left his smokes down. He'll be here in two shakes, Tom. Not to worry."

"Arthur," the blue-eyed man said in a menacing voice, grabbing his mate's arm, "these toffs 'll have the hide of any man who's not on the train. They'll peg 'em as deserters. Go find 'im, quick," he commanded. But a bloke juggling his rucksack, three apples and a pair of beat up brogues ran up seconds later.

"Found these shoes in the bin. Practically good as new," the wayward soldier claimed as his gangly chum laughed.

The one called Tom rolled his eyes in annoyance, then those blue eyes swept over Rachel again as the train whistle sounded. She knew somehow that this stranger had, or would be connected to would impact her in a significant way. She felt stupid and wasteful of the opportunity to focus on Alfie in his last moments in London, but she was drawn to the person who now hurried off with his mates and leapt trough the steam swirling around the train door and into its' dark hull.

* * *

For Alfie's sake, she put on a brave face, kissing him hard before he left to assume temporary command of his regiment. 

"You're going to come back to me," she laughed, immediately struck with the premonition that her man would return. "I'll write every day, but don't expect the same in return."

" 'Course I'm comin' back; got my good luck charm right here," he plucked the coin from his breast pocket. "I'll drop a line when I get there and often as I can. Now listen, you take care of them kids and yourself, as well. Don't over do it with the work. Get Morrie and Abe to do the bulk of the work and my dad'll help if you need something done, but only on the legal stuff. Aye?" 

In perhaps the most uncharacteristic thing his wife had seen Alfie do, he sucked in a huge breath. Rachel's insides quiverred to know her invincible, lion-hearted husband felt even a modicum of trepidation worried her, but then the preternatural certainty that he'd be back caused a release of the muscles that had tightened over the past week.

"Now don't go runnin' off with Dickie Klein while I'm away; you hear?" Rachel laughed and swatted his chest.

"Not on your life, Alf. Now go..." she said, putting on a brave face. 

"You take care of yourself and don't forget to write. I love you, meyn lib. Now be a good girl and just walk away, yeah? Can't be ordering these blokes around if I'm all misty."

"You'll see no tears from me, Alfie Solomons. You'll be back and we'll pick up where we left off. Now get...go on," she said, kissing his cheek and sending him off with a firm pat to the arm. 

"Louise! Who are you here for?

"My Lewis. He just left on the train, with Alfie I suppose since it was him who came knocking on doors and telling our men to do their duty or else."

"I didn't see him. Wave at my dad and Mr. Solomons, they're trying to get your attention. I think they're dead nervous. Go ahead, smile." 

Louise complied.

"I haven't seen you lately. I've been staying indoors," she patted her belly. "Found out we're expecting not long ago. Some timing, aye?"

"It'll all be fine, Louise. And if you need me or anything at all, just say the word. I'll come and check in on you after I see how my two react to Aflie being away. Now that your mum's moved, you can count on me. A first baby's not easy, and with all of this on top of it, you'll need the help."

"Yeah, I will. Funny how we drifted apart. I'd like to see you again, talk about old time and what not."

"Yes, that'd be nice."

"Funny how you ended up with Alfie Solomons, Rachel. I always wondered how you knew his exact date of birth and so many little details about him. I guess you were collecting all the facts on him while pretending to be disgusted by the man. Wasn't it you who said he was a toad, if memory serves me? And you also speculated that he had a schmeckel the size of...was it a baby's weiner?" Louise smirked.

"No, it was the size of your brother, Paulie's baby finger. I can't believe you remember that."

"So...how big did his schmeckel turn out to be?" Rachel's old friend burst out laughing as young Mrs. Solomons joined her before the two of them dissolved into desolate tears in each others arms and Rachel had to be dragged to the motor car by her dad and Nathan Solomons. Yet Alfie never saw a single tear.

Sorry, pals, for taking so very long to complete this. My interest in writing has been way off, but I am so pleased to complete another chapter, and be near completing another chapter of my other fic, Women's Business. I hope you are all well, and that we get back to normal very, very soon. We all need it.


End file.
